Eating our way through NYC: Part two

So, to recap: we've had Cuban sandwiches, French bistro food, and what the New York Times describes as a "high church of reverently prepared fish."

Where next?

Answer: The Morgan Library, first to check out the building (by Charles McKim and Renzo Piano), and then the holdings (manuscripts by Mark Twain, Alexander Pope, Galileo, Mozart; silver cups from first-century Rome; three, count 'em, three Gutenberg Bibles).

And then the cafe, with its oversized, horseradishy deviled eggs:



and its three-martini lunch.



Then we wandered down Broadway so I could check out the first US branch of Top Shop (verdict: cheaply made and overpriced. Much worse than the US H&M. Or perhaps I just have to accept that I haven't been in Toppo Shoppo's target demographic for, ahem, 20 years).

And then it was time to eat again, so we scooted over to A Salt and Battery, discovered that it was full to bursting (which I guess is a good thing) and repaired next door to Tea & Sympathy.

It was the first time we'd managed to get in; the place only has room for ten tables, and would frankly be more comfortable if they took a couple out. It's so small that people waiting for a table have to stand outside (not fun on a freezing January day).

On the other hand, there's a lovely selection of sponge cakes on the counter, a gregarious Bet Lynch-like manager, and a menu of bangers and mash, scotch egg and sausage roll.

It's definitely a niche, and seemingly populated by young female American Anglophiles, and so they can get away with charging (get this) $5.95 for Heinz tomato soup (yes, from a can) and $7.50 for a cheese and pickle sarnie. But it was also the rare chance for me to get my fix, so I didn't care.

We got tea, which came in mismatched china (oh, how quaint!)



And then I ordered a bacon butty (which was good — ah, proper bacon! — but could have done with a couple of slices of fried tomato to add moisture) and The Boy went for the Cornish pasty.



And that's when I realized we'd have to come back.



The meat was perfectly seasoned, deep and rich and full of flavor. There were recognizable chunks of veggies. And jus. It was one of the best Cornish pasties I'd ever tasted.

For our last meal of the visit, we went to eat oysters in the basement of a train station. (I know, it sounds a lot like getting sushi from a gas station.)

The Oyster Bar is a cavernous space just off the dining concourse underneath Grand Central. One section is laid out with long, diner-like counter seating, and the rest is ... this:



It turns out the architect, Rafael Guastavino, patented a method of creating vaulted spaces using interlocking terracotta tiles.



And his first work in the US? The Boston Public Library, for McKim, Mead and White. There. You learned something.

But we weren't there to improve our minds; we were there to consume bivalves. Luckily, the Oyster Bar has one or two choices.



We settled on four: the Bras d'Or, the Chincoteague, and two locals: Oyster Ponds and Westhampton. It was fascinating to taste the differences that location makes to the same animal. The first, from colder waters, was small and briny; the second, from warmer Virginia, was long and salty. The Oyster Ponds had an iron-ish tang, while the other Long Island type was surprisingly sweet.



It was only fitting to have champagne and toast the end of another fabulously food-filled trip.

And then we caught the train back home.

Lansdowne Pub: Magically delicious chips!

Remember how disappointed I was with the uneven, dry chips at the Battery?

It doesn't really matter any more. Because I found a place that does the closest thing to real, proper chips.

Last week, the Lansdowne Pub opened, so I went with lovely co-worker Sarah and new co-worker Eric to check it out.

In its corporate attempt to create the atmosphere of ye olde taverne from scratch, it's everything I dislike: 4,000 cozy square feet of faux-traditional, newly distressed, dark-wood bar room. A Pogues/Van Morrison/Cranberries soundtrack. Walls decorated with carefully distressed tchotchkes and cloth-bound books, Guinness posters and HDTVs showing sports.



I was all ready for a menu of authentic Irish dishes such as nachos and quesdillas and buffalo wings and chili.

But the Lansdowne's options were actually interesting. Yes, there were the usual bangers & mash and shepherd's pie and beef stew, but there were also pork chops, oysters, mussels, salmon—items that could easily appear on a trad/modern Irish menu but, at least in Boston, rarely do.

The Lansdowne also does the ubiquitious full-on fry-up breakfast on weekends, and what may be a proper Sunday roast. I shall investigate further.

But what gave me most hope was that they had chips with a variety of toppings: gravy, curry sauce, mushy peas, baked beans.

So Sarah ordered the grilled cheese sandwich, and was going to order a side of chips until the waitress explained they came with her dish anyway. And then this arrived:



"I thought you said it came with chips," Sarah said to our waitress, who rolled her eyes.

"You know, I keep telling them they should change the wording on the menu," she said. "People are always getting this confused."

Okay, so why didn't you clarify this before we ordered??

Eric went for the fish sandwich, which did really come with chips:



The fish itself was lovely:



And I ordered the ploughman's lunch. This was something of a test: in England, you can tell a lot about a pub from its ploughman's, which is, at its core, bread and a wedge of cheese, but can range from those ingredients alone to a feast of cured meats, pork pie, boiled eggs, salad and fruit.

And it turned out to be better than expected:



The bread was fabulous, light and nutty; the cheddar could have been stronger; the salad was okay (no one expects tomatoes to taste of anything in April anyway); and it came with an interesting tomato chutney, as well as Branston pickle, to which I am addicted.

And then there was the meat:



The camera doesn't lie: that's about how appetizing it was. Basically thin-sliced deli turkey and beef, it was cold, clammy, and completely without flavor. I'd seriously suggest that the Lansdowne ditch it and serve a couple of cold sausages instead.

Oh, and the chips?



As good as it gets without going to a proper chippy. Soft and pliant, not too dry or too greasy, held salt and vinegar well. Better than most late-night post-club takeaways back home, at least. I'm usually able to restrain myself from eating a whole plate of chips, but it took willpower not to finish the lot.

The Lansdowne Pub isn't the cheapest lunch option—my bread and cheese set me back $13—but I'm glad it's there for when I get the insatiable urge for real proper chips.

Sandwich person

The other day I worked from home. The Boy called mid-afternoon to see how I was doing and asked what I had for lunch.

"Guess," I said.

He sighed. "Oh. Of course. A sandwich." He thinks I'm strange.

The Boy, when he's home alone to eat, uses the stove. Maybe just pasta and a quick fresh pesto, or baked salmon and a salad, but always a meal that involves pans and heat and a variety of utensils.

Me, I slap something between two slices of bread and I'm happy. I love a good sandwich.

Of course, "sandwich" means something different to everyone. My perfect version has (unsurprisingly) an English accent--though that doesn't mean delicate, no-crust watercress triangles. Rather, it suggests an egalitarian approach to the filling: equal amounts of every ingredient, so each bite is a balanced blend of flavors.

This is almost the perfect sandwich. Really. This picture makes my mouth water. I can imagine biting through the soft, slightly nutty bread; the crunch of the cucumber and the moist sweetness of the tomato meeting the creamy cheese and salty ham.

(Why is it not actually perfect? Because that's processed cheese. If it were year-old cheddar, I'd be licking my monitor.)

Of course, now I'm thinking about the most truly British and perfectest sarnie (as My People say) of all: the cheese and pickle toastie. It's really just a straightforward cheese sandwich, with the addition of an even, generous schmear of Branston Pickle, an addictive sweet-and-sour chutney-esque condiment that is to the English pantry as ketchup is to the American.

Dropped into the toaster (or, if you will, George Foreman grill) until the bread is slightly crunchy and the filling has warmed and fused together in a joyous embrace, it's a thing of beauty.

(Mouth is watering again.)

I've never been able to appreciate the traditional American sandwich (okay, that's an extreme example) quite as much. The filling ovewhelms the bread like too many packs on a weary donkey. A sandwich should be a careful creation, a harmonious song of taste and texture--not a portable, edible container for a half-pound of meat.

The Boy, of course, disagrees with me entirely. If I may question the witness:

Me (just now): Honey, do you think a sandwich should be a portable, edible container for a half-pound of meat?

Him (without hesitation): Yes.

We do agree on some things, though--the worst sandwich we ever had was on a British Midlands flight from London to Teesside. They served a breakfast travesty of rubbery bacon (probably nuked, possibly--gasp--steamed) still sporting a fatty, gristly rind. Not what you need at 8am after a seven-hour transatlantic flight.

(Ironically, one of the best was the warm, fragrant, buttery sausage panini served on the same flight two years later.)

And we like the medianoche at La Viña, the bakery/cafe/neighborhood hangout around the corner from my in-laws'; the pork is roasted in-house before being sliced and added to ham, swiss cheese, pickles and mustard between slices of a sweet egg bread and pressed. Perfect with a tiny cup of potent, bitter espresso.

I'm curious about the Stubbs, the famous calorie-laden egg/bacon/sausage/cheese concoction served (on doorstop slices of Texas toast) at the Coppell Deli and a favorite snack for members of the Dallas Cowboys (here Nate Newton learns how they're made).

And even though I know it's a ridiculous promotional item, I'd still love to order (and, at around $200, have someone else pay for) the world's most expensive sandwich: Iberico ham, white truffles and quail eggs on ... oh, it's on sourdough bread?

Well then, never mind. I don't do sourdough. I might love a good sandwich, but there are limits.